


Everything You Know is Wrong

by Artik (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Conspiracy, Manipulation, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Artik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative title: "The Obligatory 'Everyone Lies to John Watson' Story".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bit of Prelude

John Watson had a fairly ordinary life without Sherlock. He'd walk outside and pick up groceries. He'd step into an alley for a minute, holding back tears, recounting one of the many times he and his best mate had run down that very stretch of human waste. He'd head home to his girlfriend, Mary. He'd excuse himself after giving her a kiss on the cheek and lock himself in the loo, sobbing silently with the water running, shouting through the door that he needed a shower. His second that morning. He'd walk around the park, reminding himself of the time he met Mike Stamford that day, sitting on a bench. The day this all started.  
  
In time, John Hamish Watson would find himself getting better at controlling his memories surfacing. He began to live a productive life again. Taking care of patients and falling deeply in love with Mary. The only girl he's stayed with for more than a few weeks. After all, there's no reason to love them and leave them to make Sherlock jealous. Not anymore. Well, not then. He would find the need some time later, but when he would already be committed to marry Mary.  
  
Sherlock Holmes would re-enter John Watson's life at literally the worst possible time. Had he been a day, an hour, five minutes earlier, he could've had John all to himself forever. None of this  _I must marry this ex-murderer_ nonsense. Of course, dear John wouldn't find that bit out until a month after the wedding. A small while after she nearly shot and killed Sherlock. Well, after she shot and _nearly killed_ Sherlock.  
  
John Watson had a topsy-turvy life with Sherlock back in his life. Here they were, standing in front of each other, he saying goodbye, extending his hand. John looked down at Sherlock's extended hand and made no move to complete the gesture. He didn't believe this. He wouldn't! He wasn't about to lose Sherlock again! But then, he walked off. Onto the plane. It took off. John felt his patchwork heart tear a little again. He inhaled deeply, brooding for several minutes. _Then it happened._ Moriarty. His mind was reeling with possibilities.  
  
 _Perhaps_ , he thought....  
  
  
 _"...you have a way out. Long as I'm alive, you can save your friends," Jim said. "See you!" And then it was that James Moriarty pulled a gun on himself, and put the cold steel between his exaggeratedly parted lips. He pulled the trigger. Blood spurted from his mouth and pooled at his head as he collapsed on the hard roof. Sherlock stared in disbelief as he tried to figure a way out. Or, he already knew his way out and was waiting for Mycroft. Or_ something. _Sherlock jumped. Or, walked down the roof access stairs. Or the fire escape. Or_ something. _Anyway, the body of Jim was left alone. Or rather, Jim was left alone. He slowly got up, cracked his neck and in one fluid, flourishing movement, ripped his wig off. That was his least favorite part of this dance. Shaving his head. He sighed and peeled off the several strips of duct-tape that held the small, ruptured plastic bags that once held his own blood. He chuckled softly. Scotland Yard wouldn't be clever enough to remember the little trick that Sherlock had to detect frozen, pre-stored blood. Nor would they check the bits of ground beef "grey matter" for authenticity. For all they know, he had a member of his circle ready for body removal on standby. They wouldn't care too much about finding the body. Not with their starchild dead. All they'll know is there's blood on the roof and some witnesses reporting a gun discharge in the area. And that's all they need. They needn't know it was a blank. Or that he had strapped packets of blood to his scalp under a wig, ready for him to hit his head just so on the roof. Or the one he conveniently had tucked away in the corner of his mouth. Now he would lay low until Sherlock gets attention again. He's bound to revive himself. Dear old Missus Hudson wouldn't stand having an empty house.  
  
_ John blinked. He was getting really good at thinking like Moriarty, it would seem. He shook that thought from his head and dismissed that scenario. The jet roared back and Sherlock stepped out, walking towards John. Sherlock tugged on his shirt collar awkwardly. "Err. Right. It seems my _brother,"_ he said this word with much too much spite for any human being to harbor, "is as indecisive as ever."  
  
John silently told Sherlock to shut the hell up by embracing him. "Just... I _knew_ you'd come back, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock stood back a bit and looked down at his best friend, scrunching his brow and flaring his nostrils slightly, in his best 'scrutiny face'. "Come now, John," he paused as if to relish the name coming from his own lips, "Even _I_ don't have that much blind faith in me." He muttered under his breath, " Not that I have blind faith in anything. My faith in myself is heavily grounded, I assure you. Regardless," he inhaled, saying to John and not himself, "Thank you."  
  
John coughed purposefully as he said that. He cleared his throat, "Pardon?"  
  
"Thank. You." Sherlock rolled his eyes. " _Honestly,_ John, learn to control your coughing. It's rude when people are spea---" his face went slack. "You did that just to hear me say it again, didn't you?" He scoffed in annoyance, swishing his coat as he walked to the car.

 


	2. *I Owe You* a Decent Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly becomes useful and things get shady.

John Hamish Watson was glad to have his mate back. He could have his constant distraction from the mundanity ofreality again, always leading to a conversation at Mary and his flat, going something like...  
  
" _How_ do you constantly forget to bring the groceries home?", Mary asked pointedly, her hands on her hips, a bump on her stomach protruding slightly with the promise of new life.  
  
"I just..." John sighed, falling onto the sofa, "I had them in my hand, and I was walking home, when I looked down an alley and saw a homeless man talking to---"  
  
"Oh _God. Again?_ It's like every other day, you run an errand, see him, and follow in step like a fire-ant."  
  
"Well, he said he needed my help," John said defensively.  
  
"With?", Mary asked skeptically, fully preparing her eyes to commence rolling.  
  
"Err... he needed me to hold his umbrella while he sent some texts...." John became painfully aware of how constricting his collar was while Mary began her eye-rolling. He seemed to take great interest in that particular part of his attire. "Well, it _was_ raining!" He stood in defiance.  
  
"And you left him alone? _How dare you, John! For all you know, the rain was one of Moriarty's plots to capture him!"_ Mary didn't know whether to sigh or laugh at her husband. She decided to do neither and turned on the television, making herself comfortable on the newly vacated sofa. "Why don't you go and see him?"  
  
John hadn't heard her...  
  
 _Moriarty stood over a groaning Sherlock. "Hello," Jim said in a sing-song. "You just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" Moriarty shook his head, exhaling exaggeratedly. "You." At this, he kicked Sherlock in the side. "HAD." Kick. "TO BE A HERO." He tittered, "Well, then again..." he stepped onto a coughing Sherlock. "That's why I didn't just kill you at the pool." He began jumping up and down on Sherlock's chest, eliciting from the amateur detective hackings of blood._  
  
"John!"  
  
John blinked, looking down at his wife, "W-what?"  
  
Mary sighed, "I suggested you go and see your boyfriend, and you start twitching. Short circuit?"  
  
John pointed an accusing index finger at her, "Not. Funny." He stormed off.  
  
Mary pulled out her phone and made a call.  
  
  
  
  
Molly stared at the beaker in her latex-gloved hands. "Hmm...." she set it back down and scribbled notes onto her pad, waiting for the cultures to finish being exposed.  
  
 _"Do you understand, Molly?"_  
  
"Yes, Sherlock," she sighed, rolling her eyes, "You wanted me to check to see if bacteria cultures react negatively to..." she held up a canister of gas, "whatever the hell this is."  
  
"Wrong," Sherlock said flatly.  
  
"Wrong?" Molly scrunched her face a bit, "But that's what you just told me! How in the world am **I** _wrong?'_  
  
"You said I 'wanted' you to examine the reaction of the cultures. I **need** _you to." Sherlock looked intensely into the woman's eyes, elliciting a blush from her. He lidded his eyes slightly, "Won't you help me?"_  
  
Molly stuttered out an, "O-of course, Sherlock. Anything for you." She bit her tongue at that.  
  
Sherlock literally waltzed out of the room, humming to his steps.  
  
Molly shook her head, choosing not to dwell on how easily Sherlock got her to do this for him. She was single now, of course. A free agent. She can do as she pleases. Fulfill favours for Sherlock. Not _sexual_ favours, of course. Although, if he asked....  
  
Molly decided to check on the petri dish of cultures. She put it under a microscope. "Not much change..."  
  
Molly nearly jumped as she heard a voice behind her, "Hooper?"  
  
She steeled herself, setting the dish carefully and turning, to see Greg Lestrade. "Oh. Hello, detective-inspector. What do you need?"  
  
"Hoop... Err, Molly, have heard from Sherlock? Or John? I went around to Baker Street, and no one was there. Not even Hudson."  
  
Molly blinked, "Oh, yeah. He came 'round this morning, needed some research done. I was just about to text him." She fished her mobile from her coat pocket. __  
  
"Well, could you call him?", Greg asked anxiously. "Bastard has a bad habit of never replying when we need him to."  
  
Molly laughed at his words, "That's quite accurate, Lestrade."  
  
"Greg, Hooper," Lestrade corrected.  
  
"Molly, Greg," Hooper corrected. She sighed, ringing him up. "Come on. Pick up. Pick up." She sighed as it went to his 'The subscriber you are trying to reach has a voice mailbox that is not activated' message. "Nothing." That man really needed to activate the damn thing.  
  
Greg glanced at his watch. "Err... in that case, I need your help. Queen and Country, all that."  
  
Molly narrowed her eyes, "Detective-inspectors can invoke that 'Queen and Country' line?"  
  
Greg shrugged, "Hell if I know. Come on, Molly. I need someone who knows corpses."  
  
  
Sherlock checked his phone. "One missed call," he muttered. "Right then, John," he called to the doctor behind him, without turning his head, "Back to Baker Street." John followed in tow, carrying the package Sherlock told him to, wrapped in thick, brown paper. It was nearly as large as John's torso, and considerably heavy. At Baker Street, John went up to the sitting room and deposited the package onto the coffee table. He sat on the couch, waiting for Sherlock to finish summoning Mrs. Hudson from the cafe.  
  
"I still don't see why you made me leave the building all day, Sherlock," she fussed as they climbed the stairs.  
  
John heard Sherlock sigh and say, probably for the second time, " _Because,_ there was an anonymous bomb threat." There was a pause, "Although, he should have realized that we have caller identification." He paused again before correcting himself, " _I_ have caller identification."  
  
John gulped guiltily before remembering that it wasn't his fault Sherlock faked his own death and never told him.  
  
  
Molly stood at the doorway of the slummy flat, surrounded by a forensics team. "So, _Greg,_ how come no-one wants to do their job," she said, suppressing giggles at her bravado to speak so ill of the police.  
  
"They're all too freaked out to get near it." He sighed, "Anderson, Donovan, stop blocking the doorway."  
  
As they moved to the side, Molly saw the mutilated corpse, and the blood splattered room. The only part of the body distinguishable as a piece of human was the torso, that was intact, and hopefully male, judging by the hair and flatness of the chest, except for three letters carved into the flesh. Molly stepped closer, "I... O... U?" She squinted, "Where does that sound...?" She closed her eyes and opened them with a start. "Oh." She calmly, but with great concern, pulled out her phone, took a photograph, and sent it to Sherlock.  
  
  
Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, making he and John tea when his mobile buzzed. He quickly checked it, smirked, and brought the tea to John. He primed the phone to forward it to himself when he tapped the screen.  
  
John Watson eyed the cup of tea that Sherlock made him warily. "You haven't been steeping eyeballs into this, have you?"  
  
Sherlock held his hands up defensively, smiling wickedly, "Kicked the habit."  
  
John inhaled, closed his eyes, and drank from the porcelain cup.  
  
When Sherlock drained his own cup, John could have sworn he saw Sherlock put his hand in his coat pocket, fidget the hand, and pull it out again. He shrugged it off and glanced at the parcel on the table, "So, Sherlock. What the hell is that, anyway?"  
  
"Oh," Sherlock said, "That's just my---" his mobile rang. He looked to John, then the phone, then to John. "Moriarty," he whispered.  
  
John would have choked on the tea, had he not have drained it seconds earlier.  
  
  
  



	3. How About 'Battleship' Next?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I apologize profusely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm definitely trademarking 'wifesassin'.

  
   
"He's responding well, Mycroft," Sherlock said, carefully studying the precarious situation before the two Holmeses.   
  
"Good, good." Mycroft watched his sibling make a move at the increasingly difficult situation. "I daresay you'd be out of an assistant if he showed otherwise."   
  
Sherlock merely grunted back at Mycroft, using all his concentration on the task at hand. Sherlock cursed loudly as he failed.  
  
"Jenga," Mycroft called amusedly. "Three to nil, brother-mine."  
  
Sherlock scowled at his older brother. "I don't like this game. I want to play Operation again."  
  
"Tough." Mycroft cleared his throat as Sherlock put away the game. "So, who all did you let in on this experiment of yours?"  
  
Sherlock finished shoving the blocks of wood under the couch. "Just my homeless network. And Molly. She refused to continue the experiment to the rodent phase without an explanation. My seductive skills were inadequate. Perhaps I should dose _her_ as well."  
  
Mycroft sighed, standing up. "Right. When my baby brother begins talking about his 'seductive skills', I believe that is my cue." He leaned slightly on his umbrella, "And don't go drugging _all_ your 'friends' with rejected military substances." He chuckled softly to himself.  
  
  
Mary blinked, "Really? An actual mutilated corpse? Blimey. Dark stuff. Are you sure it wasn't some satanic ritual?"  
  
"No," John said. "It needed feathers and a snake skeleton to indicate a devil thing. Sherlock said so." He blinked, "It's almost as if he encountered something like this before. In another life, or something."  
  
Mary yawned, "Wouldn't put it past 'Sherl'."  
  
"Besides," John said, yawning back, " 'I.O.U.' is definitely Moriarty's calling card."  
  
John's wifesassin went to brush her teeth, mumbling through bristles and toothpaste, "And you really think he's back, then? Not a hoax?"  
  
"I think so," John said.  
  
 _"John," Mary called. She walked back into the bedroom, staring at John with bloodthirsty eyes. "How can you be so sure it wasn't ME?" Mary reached behind her and in one accurate throw, John Watson had a throwing knife in his skull._  
  
"John!" Mary called, walking back to the bedroom, "I said, 'Guess you can't count out the possibility' After all, you would have sworn that Sherlock was dea..." she trailed off. "Are you alright, John?"  
  
John Watson blinked several times. "I... yeah. I guess I zoned out." He jumped out of bed, "I think I'm going to go and get some fresh air."  
  
 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Short chapter. Sorry. Really, I am. I just got wrapped up in making a new roleplaying site.


End file.
